


A Happy Ending?  Sure Enough

by imbellarosa



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, TW suicide mentions, canon compliant through 5x01, i missed this fandom tbh, julia x kady (if you squint), julia x penny!23 (if you squint), queliot, this is a story about writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbellarosa/pseuds/imbellarosa
Summary: Julia has a dream. Penny tries scrapbooking. Eliot drinks tea and goes on a walk.
Relationships: (past penny x kady), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	A Happy Ending?  Sure Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saramir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saramir/gifts).



> hi hi hi hi hi! I'm back in this fandom to write and idk how much i will write but I needed to get this one done and out because I do not like the story we've been given, so here: have a new one. AND this particular new one is for my magicians partner because she's the only reason I'm still watching and is an amazing human whom I deeply love. 
> 
> The title is from Richard Siken's "saying your names" because we've both agreed that every fanfic has a Siken poem that goes with it. 
> 
> (this is unbeta'd, largely bc I wanted it to be a surprise, so if there are any glaring errors, pls lmk!)
> 
> EDIT: I came back the next night to make slight changes in sentences or grammatical choices or awkward phrasing. The story is the same, but if something is slightly different, that's why!

“I don’t like this story,” Penny says to the man in the gray suit. “What’s the ending? Guess you deserved this, guess they all did? Guess you were right, power comes from pain?”

“Doesn’t it,” the man says, and they’re sitting in the same place they were what feels like a lifetime ago. “Don’t you get stronger when you get hurt and keep going - ‘pressed to the wall, dying - but fighting back!’” 

“Okay, nerd,” he sighs, “but  _ giving up _ isn’t  _ fighting back _ . It’s just. Stopping.”

He shrugs and looks down. He thinks that three years ago he would never have believed that this was the hill he was willing to die on - metaphorically speaking, of course. 

The room they are in has no windows: it is dark and grey and drab, and he thinks of sea glass green eyes and the smell of a fresh cut lawn and the blue sky over a magical world, and for the first time, he wonders if he, too, should have kept fighting. 

“We’ve talked about this - you’ve admitted it,” the man leans forward, “there are no side characters. There are people out there right now that are still fighting! Why can’t the story be theirs now?”

“Why can’t the story be  _ all of ours _ ,” Penny meets his eyes and pulls a book from thin air: his own. 

“Look,” he says, and opens it to a chapter near the beginning.

“How did you get that,” the man looks distinctly uncomfortable. “You aren’t allowed to have that.”

“Why not,” Penny shoots at him, “I’m dead.”

“You, of all people, know that death is not the end of a story. We keep writing.”

“Read this,” Penny says, and shoves the book in front of the pasty librarian, completely ignoring what the man was saying. 

The man meets his eyes, but there’s something different in him - something less serene librarian and more reckless traveler. He feels a bit younger, a bit older, a bit more himself. The Librarian reads. He reads about Taylor Swift and tired nights and travels to the south pole and a coronation.

“Someone got crowned king by - answering questions about Patrick Swayze,” the Librarian says with an incredulous tone.

“It was pretty badass,” Penny agrees. “Keep going.”

And so he makes his boss read about quests to keys and accidental deaths and deals that he should never have made. He reads about goodbyes that Penny wishes he’d never had to say, and he reads about what it feels like to fall in love - desperate, tragic, fleeting, and achingly beautiful.

He pauses, looks up, and closes the book. 

“Okay,” he says. “What is this supposed to prove?”

“Stories are - they’re fragile,” Penny looks at him “Books - lives - don’t belong to one person. His story was his own, but look” - he grabs about two hundred pages of the book - “he’s in this part of my story. And I didn’t even like the dude most of the time. Just think about what other books look like.”

Penny waits for a second, pauses for dramatic effect, then pulls another book from thin air.  _ Julia Wicker _ , it reads. Then another:  _ Alice Quinn,  _ and  _ Margo Hansen  _ and  _ Josh Hoberman _ and  _ Eliot Waugh _ . He cannot bring himself to read Kady’s. He cannot. 

Startled by the flash of old grief, he shakes himself and starts bookending pages - in some books, it’s thick chunks full of pain and joy and love and loss, and whatever life is in general, and in others, it’s just a sliver - a passing mention, a closeness of circumstance. 

“Look,” he says, then flips through all of the pages. “This book says Julia Wicker, but it’s not just her story. She’s got chapters of all of them in her. More like - a scrapbook than a novel.”

“Quentin made his choice,” the librarian says blandly as if none of these stories really matters to him in a visceral way. Penny wonders if that detached interest is what one gains with experience. If so, he it is an experience he does not want. “We all have that right - the right to choose how to live and how to die. No scrapbook metaphors change that you are the one that decides what you do.”

“But that’s - that’s not true,” Penny says. “Not even close. Eliot tried to kill the monster to  _ save _ Quentin. Quentin killed  _ himself _ because he thought it would save them all. And I - I played the part you wanted me to because I thought -”

He breaks off and looks away and tries to remember his life before book clubs and pomegranate cupcakes. He tries to remember what it means to feel  _ alive _ \- the fire in you that makes you want to stay that way, and all of the keepers of the flame. He remembers Kady, and feeling his heart break into a million pieces and then come back together, gently, softly.

He thinks he is proud of himself, of what he has and who he is, but he thinks that, maybe, if given the chance, he would be someone else. 

“I thought that I was here to  _ save  _ them,” Penny says fiercely. “Not to let them die and lead them on.”

“You’re not here for them at all,” the Librarian says, cocking an eyebrow, “You’re here because you chose to be.”

“I  _ don’t like this story _ .”

“Okay,” the librarian says, and he smirks mischievously. “So tell me a new one.” 

* * *

The day is bright in a way that Eliot no longer likes. The sun is too hot and the air is oppressive and it would be the perfect day for a child to go out and play in the garden, to sing eighties songs while listening to the birds and planning a weekend away and - he stops and takes a long drink of his flask. It doesn’t matter, he thinks. That life is gone - it was never here in the first place.

_ Be brave _ , a little voice that sounds tragically familiar tells him. He drinks until he can no longer hear it. Margo has been gone for a long time, and something in him registers it, but he can’t bring himself to go looking for her. He  _ hates _ her pity - hates it with everything that’s left of his shredded heart. 

_ What would Quentin have done _ , he thinks, and then drinks again. 

This, clearly. If not, he would be here. If he had just waited one more day, one more hour. If he had fought for one more minute. If he had run. Or if Eliot had told him the truth when he’d asked for it. He thinks that maybe he could have saved him. And then he drinks. And he keeps going until he can’t think about anything anymore. 

* * *

Julia dreams of grey. It’s odd, because all of her dreams had gone away after her Godly powers had left, too, but. She guesses that she’s getting used to magic again. When she dreams, she dreams of Penny, but it’s not _her_ Penny. There’s something different in his eyes - he looks so much older and so much sadder. She wants to give him a hug, but he’s talking to someone - she can’t tell who.

In her dreams, she stands in the doorway of his office. There are grey walls and grey couches and a concrete floor, and no sun at all. She tries to imagine her Penny without a splash of color - she tries to imagine him speaking in low tones and soothing voices. She can’t - doesn’t want to. She wants him to be  _ loud _ and  _ angry  _ and  _ passionate _ and  _ so alive _ , but this is - it’s an odd facsimile of who he could be.

He looks straight at her and gives her a small smile.

“Julia,” he says, and she thinks he sounds flat,. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s been a while.” 

“Penny,” she rushes to him, but something stops her from reaching out. She leans in and looks closely. “You’re - you’re  _ Kady’s _ Penny.”

He smiles broadly, a flash of teeth and dimples, looking more like she remembers him.

“That’s my favorite thing I’ve ever been,” he says, and motions to a chair. “Please, sit.” 

“What’s going on,” she asks, and she looks between Penny and the other man. “Who’s this?”

“This is the Bossman,” Penny says sardonically. “I’m calling him Cerberus.”

“That’s - not his name,” Julia says hesitantly. “Right?”

“No,” the man agrees. “But I quite like it, actually.”

“Cool,” she accepts it and sits down. “Um. So what’s going on?”

“We’re writing a story,” Penny says, “but we need your help.” 

She sees them poring over an unbound book with a forest green cover, clumsily writing new pages in thin and wavy cursive. It occurs to Julia that Penny’s gentle handwriting is so out of place with his abrasive personality.

“What are we writing,” Julia looks down and tries to keep her voice steady. 

“Penny’s writing,” Cerberus clarifies. “I’m - supervising. I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Shut up,” Penny grits his teeth, “It  _ will _ . We - we just have to get there.”

“Get where,” Julia asks.

“I’m - I’m having trouble with transitions,” he says. “I always kind of just - appeared where I need to be. I don’t know how to get there.”

“Okay,” she agrees, and feels increasingly like she’s missing a large part of the conversation, “where do you need to be?”

“Here,” Penny flips to the last page and shows a small cottage with ivy creeping up the sides. There is a chimney with smoke coming out and a small garden, obviously cultivated with care. There are people in the garden. Their faces have been blurred, but they are laying on a blanket, grinning at the sky, and children running around in the forest on the edge of the yard. There are trellises and stained glass window and she thinks that if she were there, she would hear someone laughing. It looks beautiful, and she wants it ferociously. 

“Whose book is this,” she asks quietly.

“No one’s - yet,” Penny says. “I’m trying to get there. 

“But I just - I don’t know where to go from here,” he says, and he gestures to all of the other open books on his desk. “I’m almost there. I just - I don’t know how to fix this.”

She looks at everything, and something comes to life in her. Something old and sad and remarkably powerful, and something deeply and profoundly  _ hers _ .

“Let me,” she says, takes the pen, and closes her eyes. 

* * *

When Eliot opens his eyes again, he is sitting across from Jane Chatwin, taking tea. Her kettle is a shocking color of red, and her mugs have cats on them. He does not know how he got there, but he’s been blacking out and coming to for days on end, so he supposes that it is not out of the realm of possibility that he came here looking for answers. 

_ I thought she was dead _ , that voice that is Q’s says in his ear. 

_ So are you _ , he tells it and the voice shuts up again.

And then she’s making more tea and asking about Quentin and telling him to let the dead stay dead. To honor his sacrifice. It’s  _ bullshit _ , he thinks, because it wasn’t a sacrifice, it was a suicide, and there’s a difference.  _ There has to be a difference _ . 

He asks her to help, and she gives him the sad smile of a person who knows grief. He knows that smile. She gives him a watch and tells him that it is time for them all to live with the dead, and grieve what they have lost. 

“What have you lost,” he spits at her.

“Why, Eliot,” she says with surprise, “I’ve lost the only family I’ve ever known: my parents, my brothers, Fillory. I’ve even grown to become the villain in my own story - children are always afraid of the Watcher Woman.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and grows quiet. He  _ is  _ sorry. He thinks, in this moment, that he understands how Martin Chatwin became the Beast - having all of that terrible pain in a cavern inside of you and never having anyone to share it with. He wants to be stronger than that. He doesn’t know if he is. 

“I promise you,” he tells her, and he grabs her hands, “that if I ever get back to the throne of Fillory, no one will forget you. They won’t forget what you did for us - what you gave up. I promise that no one will be scared of you anymore.”

She smiles brightly, and, for a second, Eliot sees the face of a young girl who has been promised a lifetime of magic and family and adventures. He sees her as she could have been.

“And I promise you, High King Eliot of Fillory,” she says softly, solemnly, “that Quentin’s story will be one for the ages. His name will be whispered in the stories told over bonfires, and at bedtime, and when remembering the great heroes.

“My moment in this story has passed. But I can see all that ever was and all that will be and all that could be, and it’s all very - confusing, frankly. It’s like watching a human genome write and rewrite itself constantly.”

“Are you drunk,” Eliot eyes her uncomfortably. He himself feels more sober than he has in weeks. Her eyes go out of focus and then lock with his.

“How did you get here,” she asks him.

“I,” he stutters. “I must’ve walked. I don’t know, I’ve been medicated for a while now.”

“But you’re not medicated now,” she points out.

“No, I suppose I’m not,” he acquiesces, and shrugs, “Guess I’ll have to fix that soon.”

“Focus,” she hisses, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“What’s this about,” he sighs. He’s tired. He’s always  _ so tired  _ now 

“I’m not the only one with clocks, Eliot,” she says urgently, “and something’s not right. I can feel it.”

“I was...I was in Fillory,” he says slowly, the memories coming back to him in fits and bursts, “Margo hasn’t been back in a while. Fen and Josh - they’re gone. She wasn’t expecting that. I was. She walked away from me. I - I don’t know where she went. Where is she? Where’s Bambi?”

“I don’t know,” Jane says, and she furrows her brow. “We aren’t in Fillory. I’ve poured you tea out of an electric kettle.”

He starts and looks around, and she’s right - there’s electricity here, and air conditioning, and wooden floors and outlets, but she’s dressed in Fillorian robes. Then something else occurs to him:

“You're dead,” he says quietly. “You died. Martin killed you.”

She thinks a for a moment, and then frowns.

“Yes,” she says. “I suppose I am.”

“So where  _ the fuck _ am I,” he spits and stands up so quickly that the chair topples over behind him.

“I suppose I don’t actually know,” she says, and then frowns again. “I’m trying to see the timeline, but it’s all jumbled - it’s like someone’s erased what’s been written and is starting over.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do that,” Eliot says and backs up a bit.

“I’m  _ not _ ,” she says vehemently. “It’s not me. I just - I can’t quite see who’s doing it, or what’s happening. I suppose that’s because I’m a part of the story. Ah, well.”

She sighs and pours herself another cup of tea.

“What,” he looks at her in disbelief, takes another step back, and promptly trips over the chair he’s turned over. He rights himself and tries to find his former kingly difficulty. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” she stands, “I suppose we could always look out the window.”

She makes her way over, and then smiles softly.

“I know this place,” she says. “It’s Fillory - before Martin. I’ve been here - when I was a child. There was an old man here - he lived here. Or, rather, I suppose he lived in the cottage that would have been here. He gave me the key that helped me make my timelines later. He said he’d solved the puzzle - the beauty of all life. He’d said they’d solved it together.”

She makes her way back to her chair and sits down.

“D’you know,” she says, meeting his eyes, “I never asked him what that meant.”

Eliot looks at her, rushes to the window, and then sprints out the door. 

* * *

“That was pretty good,” Penny says, grinning and nodding at Julia.

“Thank you,” she says, tilting her chin up with a pretty smile, “I was going to be a writer, once.”

“Was that before or after you were going to be the Queen of Fillory,” Penny smirks and eyes her.

“After queen,” she nods with a playfully serious tone, “but before lawyer.”

Cerberus furrows his brows and tilts his head, as if he was thinking about it.

“You would have made a good writer,” he tells her.

“Thank you,” she tells him, before reflecting upon what he’s said. “Do you know that for a fact?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he says, and it seems as though he’s enjoying himself, “It would take the fun out of everything.”

“How about this,” she says, and looks at Penny and Cerberus as if she’s making a promise. “If we get this ending right, I’ll write a book. I’ll write about Big Love Stories, and all of the ways that one person can change someone’s life. I’ll write a story about stories and the people that tell them. If we get this one right, I’ll never stop trying to get the next one right.”

“Who does a Goddess pray to,” Cerberus muses, looking at her appraisingly. 

“Right now,” she raises her eyebrows, “to whoever’s listening.” 

* * *

The garden is just how Eliot remembers it. The sun is warm, and the air is sweet, and the mosaic and the tiles lie in some sort of disarray.  _ The beauty of all life is life itself _ , he thinks, and then shakes the thought, reaches for his flask, and realizes that it’s not in his pocket anymore. 

He turns around to go back to Jane Chatwin, but when he opens the door of the cottage, she’s gone, and only the dusty, two room house remains. It’s just like he remembers it - a bit dusty, a bit dingey, and  _ home _ . There’s a fire in the fireplace, and something cooking on the stove. He moves closer to the bed, and it looks like it’s been slept on. Someone has been here. 

He turns on his heel and walks back outside, and notices suddenly that someone is sitting on the edge of the garden. His hair is long again, and his skin is darker than he remembers it, and he’s wearing that old blue shirt that he always wore when gardening. He would say that the color reminded him of Alice’s eyes. Eliot lets out a broken half sob and tries to move. He stumbles, falls, stands, and stumbles again. 

Quentin whips around and sees him and shoots up.

“El,” he mouths, and then runs and shouts it, “El!”

“Q,” he sobs and hyperventilates and runs. 

Quentin catches him, quicker and lighter on his feet than Eliot remembers.

“You’re here,” he breathes. “Holy shit, El, you’re here.  _ How are you here _ ?”

“I was - I was just -” he breaks off and heaves. His system is trying to get all of the toxins that he’s been pumping into his body for weeks. Quentin puts a hand on his back and rubs it softly. 

“It’s okay,” he says, “El, it’s okay.”

“No,” he says, “ _ it’s not _ . Do you know what you did?”

“I,” Quentin falters, “I did what I had to do to save you. That’s all that matters.”

Eliot lets out a noise he did not think he was capable of making. It’s the sound an animal makes when it has been given a wound it knows it will never heal from.

“ _ No _ ,” he says. “You’re - you left. You left me. You left before I had a chance to - to see you again. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“What did you do,” Quentin looks at him in a mix of suspicion and fear, “El, you didn’t -”

“No,” he replies quickly. “I didn’t. But you did.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Quentin says desperately, with those large, sad eyes that Eliot had fallen in love with. “I was so tired, and so alone.”

“You  _ were not  _ alone,” Eliot says angrily, “I told you that. Fuck, Q, I told you that so long ago, how could you even  _ think _ -”

“You were  _ gone _ ,” Quentin bellows. “I - there was a  _ monster _ with your  _ face  _ and  _ eyes _ killing people and  _ it made me watch _ , and then you were in the hospital and I didn’t know if you were dead or not! And even if you weren’t - I was still -”

He looks away and his voice breaks. 

“I was still alone. And this life” - he gestures around him - “this is all I’ve ever wanted. This is it for me, El.”

“You could have had this out there,” Eliot says softly. “You could have had this anywhere.”

“Not like this,” Quentin whispers, and his chin is trembling. “And - Julia had 23, and Margo had Josh and Alice and Kady had their magic quest and I didn’t have anyone. I didn’t have  _ anyone _ .”

“Quentin, that’s,” Eliot wants to say that it isn’t true, but he thinks back to his time as the monsters and the glimpses he had gotten of the real world. He thinks about how everyone was always telling Quentin to be strong, or to “pussy up”, or asking him for something - his love, his help, his time - and Eliot thinks about how it feels to give so much of yourself until it feels like there’s nothing left. He thinks that maybe Q didn’t feel like he had himself anymore. 

He takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know if that’s true or not,” he says carefully, measuredly, in the voice that had always calmed Quentin down. “I wasn’t there. But I do know that I miss you so much - fuck, sometimes it feels like I can’t even breathe.”

Quentin purses his lips and moves in gently and hugs him, and Eliot  _ loses it _ . He sobs and heaves and he can’t breathe, and he thinks about that cavern of pain that had been expanding his chest, and he thinks he feels it loosen and shrink with every wail. Quentin tilts his head so his nose is in the crook of Eliot’s neck, and he feels Quentin’s tears, and he holds on tightly.

“I don’t,” he stands up and tries to compose himself, “I don’t think I can say goodbye to you again, Q. I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive it.”

Quentin pulls them down to the mosaic until they are sitting in the center, like they were that one night a lifetime ago.

“You remember what you told me once,” Quentin looks at him, his own voice breaking, “You told me magic comes from pain. And, fuck, El, you’re gonna come out of this, and you’re going to be so strong. You’ve always been like the sun, to me. Radiant.” 

“That was some bullshit that Dean Fogg told us and we would tell freshmen when they were having a hard time,” Eliot lets out a hysterical wail, “I don’t know if that’s true! Do you think I know where magic comes from? If I did, we wouldn’t have had to go on that goddamn key quest!” 

Quentin looks at him and starts laughing. Loud, full-bodied laughs, throwing his head back and just. A sound of joy and pain and hysteria and Eliot didn’t think that one laugh could contain so much. He laughs for a minute then sits up straight and grabs Eliot’s hand.

“El,” he says gently, “how are you getting back?”

“I,” Eliot wipes the last of his tears and looks around. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here. I was - I was in Fillory on second, and then I was with Jane Chatwin, and then I was here, and I have no idea what that means.”

“We have to get you back,” Quentin says, “Fillory needs its High King.”

“Fillory has Margo,” Eliot says. “I need to be here. Q, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“El, don’t,” Q can’t meet his eyes, and he lets go of his hands and starts fiddling. “I - I know, okay? You needed me to know that you were in there. I get it, okay?”

“Quentin Coldwater, you look at me right now,” Eliot says in the tone he used to use when Teddy would get caught in his liquor cabinet. Quentin can’t help but look at him. “I  _ love you _ . I - I was so scared, and so stupid, and I broke your heart, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

He takes a breath, and he remembers that awful moment in his mind when he saw himself, small and scared and far too young to be this old. 

“I  _ lied _ to you,” he continues, because he does not know if he will ever have a chance to say that again. “I wanted - God. I wanted that life - with you - more than anything. I wanted to be a father, and a husband, and to grow a garden and just. Just be. With you. And I  _ should have told you that _ , but I was so scared, and I’m so sorry, and I don’t know if telling you that would have changed anything, but if it would have, God, Q. 

“I should have done it anyway, but I will never forgive myself if I didn’t say the words that would have saved your life.”

Quentin looks at him as if he'd hung the moon, and he smiles a watery smile. 

“I’ll wait,” Q tells him. “I’ll wait right here for you, for as long as it takes. So you go back, and you do whatever it is you need to do. Fall in love, have a family, be a spectacular king. And whenever you miss me, or you think it’s too much, think about peaches and plums and this place. And I want you to know that I’m  _ so sorry _ . I’m so sorry that I hurt you, and that I was so sad and broken that I lost sight of this - of us.

“And tell Alice that I’m so sorry for what I did to her. Tell her that she deserved so much better than what I did to her. And please know how much -”

“No,” his voice breaks. “No. I can’t take all your messages back. I’m sorry, Q. I can’t do that.”

“Okay,” Quentin nods. “You’re right. Just - tell them all I love them. So much.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, and he’s so tired, “I can do that.”

They lay down, then, under the sun in this place that they know so well, and he pulls him closer, and he grabs his wrist and feels his pulse. It’s the best lullaby he’s ever heard.

* * *

Julia is crying, and Penny smirks. 

“Okay,” he says and looks at her. “It’s your turn now.”

She sniffs, wipes a tear, and checks her pocket. The card that the Binder gave her is in her pocket, right where it has been all of these weeks. 

Penny pulls out a landline from his desk, the old kind with a rotary dial, and she dials the numbers one at a time. 

“Hello,” the crotchety old voice says on the other line.

“Hey,” Julia says softly. “Um. Remember me? You owe me a favor.”

“Ah, I remember you,” he says. “I don’t owe you shit, princess. I saved your life. We’re even.”

“Nope,” she pops the ‘p’ in the word. “ _ I  _ didn’t ask you to do that. I’ve reviewed our contract - you still owe  _ me _ a favor.”

“Our contract,” he scoffs, “how the hell did you get your hands on that?”

“Did you know the library has a copy of every contract ever agreed on,” she says conversationally, “Written or otherwise. And the Underworld branch of the library has an  _ excellent _ enforcement team.”

He lets out a string of curses that has something to do with “swindling, scamming humans”. She gives a beatific smile and hangs up.

“Oh, he’s on his way,” she squints her eyes, purses her lips, and nods at Penny.

He appears in a few seconds, in a dingy, beige robe two sizes too big.

“What do you want,” he grumbles.

“A metro pass,” she says.

“Do you  _ know _ how hard that is to come across,” he says, his eyes bulging. 

“Can you do it,” she asks him.

“I, um,” he says, stammering.

“Can he,” Julia looks at Cerberus.

Cerberus fixes the Binder with his dark, ancient eyes, before looking back at Julia and nodding solemnly. 

“Do it,” she demands. “And then we’ll be even.”

“If I do this,” he says, “then that’s if between you and I. You won’t be a goddess again. You get either a metro card, or your old powers back.”

Julia doesn’t hesitate.

“Give me the damn metro card,” she says, “and don’t you  _ ever  _ try to tell a woman that someone else’s choice is  _ her _ favor.”

He gives her a grim, impatient smile and whips out a small card that looks like her own New York metro card.

“Use it well,” he smiles grimly. 

She looks at Penny, and they both give him their best Cheshire Cat grin. He looks between them and disappears.

“Okay,” she says, and hands it to Penny. “Go get our boy back.”

“Julia,” Penny looks at her, “you’re going to wake up soon. Listen to me - I’m going to fix this. I promise you I am. I don’t know where Quentin’s going to pop up, but I want you to know that when you wake up, you can start looking for him.

“Also, know that someone’s always got your back. I’m always looking out for you guys. And tell Kady that I love her, that being ‘Kady’s Penny’ is the only thing I wanted to be remembered for.”

“Can he come back,” Julia looks at Cerberus, “will he ever be able to come back?”

“He owes the library a debt,” Cerberus says, “and he’s the best writer we’ve got.” 

“Can someone else pay it,” Julia asks desperately, “please, he’s done so much for you.”

“Would you give me the metro card if I asked,” Cerberus asks with a glint in his eyes. “One friend’s life for another’s?”

“No,” Penny says without hesitation, “We wouldn’t. Julia, I’m happy here. I should have fought harder to get back, but to spend my life doing this - telling stories, helping when I can. That’s a life worth living. I’m good here. Just - remember to tell Kady how much I love her. And love her for me. Please.”

Julia meets his eyes and nods.

“I will,” she whispers, crying again, “I’m sorry we weren’t better friends. Thank you - for everything.”

She kisses his cheek slowly and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she’s in the apartment she shares with her Penny and Kady. She shoots out of bed and starts running, calling out to see who’s in the house.

“What the fuck,” Kady comes out of the main bedroom, her hair sticking everywhere. 

She throws her arms around Kady’s neck and holds her tight. 

“I have so much to tell you,” she tells Kady. “But we have to go now.”

* * *

Eliot wakes up in Fillory.  _ Ow, _ he thinks, and touches his head. He remembers his dream, of course he does, and of course, he’s dreaming of Q. He’s surprised that it had taken him this long to see him in his dreams. He inspects himself and his surroundings, and, surprisingly, he’s alive, and has not been caught.

“Hey,” he hears a voice call, “What are you doing here?”

“Um,” he thinks and looks around and tries to gather his wits, “I’m a cosplayer? I got separated from my group. You know” - he holds up his flask and shrugs - “what can you do?”

The guard laughs loudly. 

“I know how that goes,” he agrees, and grabs Eliot’s arm lightly. “I can show you the way out.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says tightly, looking around for Margo, and wondering where she could have gone, “That’d be great. Um, do you know how one could get an audience with the King?”

The guard looks at him suspiciously and his grip tightens.

“Who’s askin’,” the guard growls.

“Erm, no one,” Eliot shrugs, “just making conversation.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, “make a different kind of conversation.” 

Eliot nods and gets thrown out unceremoniously, landing on his side. He looks around and thinks about where he can go.

_ The cabin _ , a part of him - the part of him that sounds like Q - says,  _ go to the cabin _ . 

He thinks about his dream, about the garden and the forest and the goddamn mosaic, and he thinks about how maybe “living in the past” doesn’t mean “living in a different timeline”, and he wonders if he has family there. He thinks about his dream, and how real it had felt, and how intimate, and he thinks that there is something less raw about him.

Eliot knows that he has to go back to the castle to find Margo, but he also knows that he has to regroup. So he turns on his heels and starts the very long walk to the cabin. Somehow, he still knows it by heart. The air is soft and warm, and he can feel the magic mixing in with the opium, and it feels like home. He taps in his pocket for his flask, and it’s there and he grabs it, but he hears a voice in his head. 

_ Lost to your own vices _ , Jane Chatwin had told him in his dream. He looks at the flask again, and thinks of all the years he has had it. He thinks about the time, right before he had been accepted into Brakebills, when he stole it from his father, and how his father had beat him and searched for it for days but never found it. Magic, it turns out, is good for hiding small objects.

_ Minor mendings _ , Q’s voice teases him,  _ maybe that could have been your discipline, too _ . Eliot wonders if he’ll always have Q’s voice in his head. He hopes so. He knows, with the ferocity of age and heartbreak and wisdom that does not come from grief but from love, that he will not fall in love again. The part that makes sad, and  _ fucking furious _ , is that Quentin  _ isn’t there _ . He would not mind loving Quentin so much if he were there to accept it. 

He throws the flask as far away from him as he can and keeps walking. The birds sing wildly, without reason or harmonies or intent - they just sing to be heard. He wonders if people are like that, too, sometimes. He wonders if Quentin had just wanted to be heard, in his final days, and he was not there to do it. He knows that he has to have a long conversation with Margo. But later. He will do it later. 

Eliot stops for food and water in a small village at noon at around the half-way point of his walk, and he asks about the name Coldwater.

“Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” the woman who sells him the food says, and he kicks himself, because  _ duh, he’s three hundred years in the future _ . He doesn’t even know if the mosaic is still here.

“There was a family that lived in this village, and the next, by that name,” the merchant continues, “it was said they could do magic. But there aren’t any around these parts anymore.”

Eliot looks down dejectedly, but then he puts it together and his heart stutter-steps.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “did you say there was a family by that name that lived here.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, “But Old man Coldwater died a good thirty years ago now, before my own son was born, and he only had daughters.”

“His daughters,” Eliot says, almost frantically, “are they alive?”

“Right,” the woman lifts her sleeves up, “I don’t know what you’re game is, still in that ridiculous costume of yours, but you should know that I won’t let you cause any trouble around here.”

“Um, no ma’am,” Eliot says, steps back, and realizes that he has to buy new clothes, and soon.  _ Next town, El _ , Q tells him, and, for once, Eliot listens and scurries away. 

He resolves to not stop until he’s reached the cabin, and by the time he does, the sun is low in the sky, casting an orange hue on the world. The garden is overgrown now, the long grass and dandelions running wild over what used to be Arielle’s tomatoes. He thinks that he has to put some of this back to rights. Arielle would have rolled up her sleeves and said something like,  _ well no use crying over what’s done _ , and would have set about to fix it.

It occurs to him that he has no idea how to go about fixing his own life. He looks up at the outline of the cottage against the sky, and realizes, to his dismay, that there is a thin trail of smoke leading from the chimney to the nearest star. Eliot starts to reach for his sword before remembering that they’re all in the royal armory. Back at the castle. A day’s walk in the other direction. 

He sighs and figures he better go see who’s squatting in  _ his _ house, and hopes that if it comes to blows, his casting is stronger that whoever’s in there. The door opens with a loud  _ creak _ ; it’s evident that no one has oiled the hinges in years, and he’s lucky that it wasn’t rusted shut. 

_ Or maybe it was _ , the Q voice says _ , and your guest just - opened it before you got here _

Fair, he thinks, and lifts his hands to cast.

“Hello,” a tired voice calls from the corner of the kitchen. “Is there someone there?”

Eliot freezes. He’s rooted to the ground, his voice dying in his throat. There’s a loud scraping noise, and someone’s clearly stood up quickly. Eliot can’t believe it. He doesn’t trust his ears.

“Hello,” the voice calls again, “is someone being creepy on purpose, because I swear to  _ God _ I am  _ not in the mood _ .”

“Q,” he chokes, as Quentin rounds the corner and stops in his tracks, too. 

“Eliot,” Quentin breathes and rushes forward and grabs him. “Oh my god, it’s you. I mean, Penny told me to sit tight, and that there would be a sign for where I needed to go, but I never thought” - he pulls back and looks at him - “ _ it’s you _ .” 

Eliot holds tight and thinks about his dream - about Jane and Quentin and this very place, and he thinks that maybe it wasn’t a dream. If Penny had been involved, maybe…

“What happened, Q?” he asks seriously. He does not think he could survive if this was taken away from him now. 

“I don’t know,” Quentin says. “One minute I was tending to the garden, and then you were  _ there _ , and” - 

“That was real,” Eliot asks softly.

“I hope so,” Q says, and reaches out and grabs his hand. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

Eliot interlaces their fingers and squeezes Q’s hand tightly, proving to himself that this is real and they are there, wherever and whenever  _ there _ is, they will rise to the occasion in a manner befitting Kings of Fillory. 

“And then what happened,” Eliot prods Quentin to finish the story. 

“And then you were gone again,” Q shrugs and drops his eyes, but immediately raises and widens them, remembering something important, “And suddenly Penny was there - our Penny - and he was giving me one of these cards, like the one they gave me to move on, and he was telling me that Julia had called in a favor and that it was mine, and he told me to wait once I got here. He told me to wait for someone to find me.

“I thought it was going to be Julia, and I guess he did, too, but this - this makes so much more sense, honestly.”

Quentin laughs a breathy laugh as if he can’t believe that he’s allowed to say it. Eliot certainly can’t believe that he’s allowed to  _ hear _ it, to  _ keep  _ him. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, warmly, “I guess this does make sense.”

* * *

“So,” Quentin says, after they’ve exhausted their conversation, “where are we, exactly?”

“Oh,” Eliot says, surprised at how quickly he’d forgotten his present apocalyptic situation. “Fillory, three hundred years in the future. Some asshole king dethroned Fen and Josh, and I think Margo is still somewhere in the castle. Basically, we have to plan a jailbreak and then a coup.”

“Oh, is that all,” Quentin smirks, then mouths ' _ easy _ ' in that playful, exaggerated way of his. Eliot can’t help but laugh and lean in and kiss Quentin, easily, slowly at first, and the Quentin laughs and bites Eliot’s lip, and it’s all over for him.

Later, much later, when they are no longer sticky and naked and on the  _ goddamn floor _ , Eliot thinks about the last two months, and he looks over at Quentin, who is sleeping, and shakes him away.

“Hmm,” Q says sleepily, and then sees him and smiles. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay,” Eliot asks, and then thinks that’s a stupid question, “I mean, are you safe?”

“I’m okay, El,” Q says, “You’re here now.”

“No,” Eliot says, shaking his head. “No. I can’t -” 

His voice breaks, and he has literally never been this emotional after sex, in any lifetime. But he “pussy’s up”, as Margo would put it, and pushes on.

“I can’t lose you again, Q,” Eliot says, “especially not to something like - like suicide. We’re gonna find a way back, and then you’re going to go see a doctor, okay?”

Quentin looks at him with his big eyes, and he seems to be searching for something. Whatever it is, he finds it and nods.

“And I’m going to go, too,” Eliot says, begrudgingly. “God knows I have enough trauma to work through.” 

And Quentin keeps looking and him, and he nods again, threading their fingers together. The thing is, the more Eliot thinks about the morning, the more impossible it seems, the more awkward and daunting and  _ overwhelming _ ; but then Q curls up into him and goes back to sleep, and Eliot grabs his wrist and feels his pulse. It’s still his favorite lullaby

_ Whatever else happens _ , he thinks with a fierce protectiveness he didn’t think he was capable of,  _ this is worth it _ .

* * *

Penny closes the book and casts a binding spell on it. The new book has empty pages and is writing itself once more. He looks up at Cerberus.

“Well,” he asks, and he realises how drained he feels.

“Not bad,” the Librarian smiles. 

Penny grins tiredly and looks at the stack of books on his desk - his friends’ his own, and he feels a small stab of pain again.

“That was the last time I’ll be able to see them, wasn’t it,” he asks seriously.

“Perhaps,” his Boss answers, “Perhaps not. I haven’t read your book yet.”

He turns to make for the door, and then pauses and turns around.

“You know,” he muses, “you can never tell anyone about this.”

“I know,” Penny says.

“This could have been disastrous,” Cerberus continues.

“I know.”

“Then I have to ask: why did you do it?”

“Because they’re my friends,” Penny says simply, “and no matter how long I spend down here, I’ll always love them. That’s family.” 

“I suppose it is,” Cerberus tilts his head in that scientific way of his, “I’ve never had a family, you know.”

“I know, man,” Penny smiles sadly. “But that’s all it is - it’s risking your life for the one story, because they would have done - did do it - for you. 

“And I’m so tired of reading ghost stories. I just - I want to read a love story for a change” - then he raises an eyebrow and points one finger at Cerberus - “if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it to my last breath.”

The Librarian laughs, and Penny thinks that maybe he’s made a friend down here - a real one. 

“It’s a good story,” his boss considers. “But will it last?”

“I can’t guarantee it,” Penny says and shrugs, “but I’ve known them for a while now, and they’re all good people who love each other. My bet is that they’re going to figure it out.”

“A happily ever after,” Cerberus raises an eyebrow.

“Something like that,” Penny says, and he laughs. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Anyways! That's this one done! Let me know what you think and come say hi to me at @imbellarosa or @mendingsminor on tumblr!


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